


Beside, The Seaside

by misaffection



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard takes Camille to Clacton, because he's romantic like that.</p><p>Set after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/692969">Ever Easy</a>, there are references to what else happened that night, though nothing overt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beside, The Seaside

As much as Camille thinks she’s prepared, the cold wind sweeping across the airfield takes her breath. It’s cold. Really, _really_ cold. What the heck was she thinking?

She snorts into the collar of her coat. Oh, she knows. She was too swept up in the sweetness of an offer that was downright romantic given who’d asked her. In the warm heat of a Saint-Marie night, his usual reticence lost in the dark and a goodly amount of rum. _Afterwards_ , when she’d been feeling all too pleased with herself and generous to boot.

Of course he’d remembered – he’d not been that drunk – and so here she is. She sighs, aware she got herself into this mess, and tramps down the steps.

Richard is grinning. He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s colder than a freezer, that the wind is stronger enough to cut down to bone. What he seems is happy. She fights the temptation to roll her eyes and loses.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. At least she wins the urge to punch him.

“It is cold.”

“Nonsense. It’s a lovely spring day.” He looks up at the iron-grey sky. “Though it looks like we might get a shower, so maybe we ought to move inside.”

Inside sounds good. No, it sounds great. Camille smiles brightly. “Let’s.”

Customs is organised chaos. The English adoring queuing and Richard is very, very English. She fidgets and gets a hard stare. She narrows her eyes at him. Folds her arms. But she stops tapping, damn him.

Eventually, they get through and she’s treated to the experience of luggage reclaim. By the time they get out of the airport she’s come up with three ways of killing him without being caught. The police would never even find his body.

But the taxi is warm. She listens as he chats to the driver, talking about the weather and the news and the latest sports results. A smile tugs at her mouth, amusement bubbling up through her annoyance. It’s not often she sees him this animated. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be all that bad after all.

Hours later, sore and hungry and tired, Camille stares at the caravan and revises that opinion.

“When you said ‘caravan’ I thought you were joking,” she says.

He looks surprised at her tone. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s _right_ with it?” She shakes her head. “It’s tiny. And cold. And that sofa is an awful colour.”

“It’ll be all right once we have the heating on.”

 _Only if by heat you mean burning the damn thing down._ Camille flops onto the puce-coloured sofa and hopes it’s cleaner than it looks. The sky is darker now and as she watches, the clouds finally make good on their threat. Rain lashes the window.

“That,” she says, “is not a shower.”

At least the caravan doesn’t leak. Richard unpacks a plastic bag of supplies, lights the hob and displays a talent she didn’t know he had – he can cook. Well, he can crisp bacon and that’s the same thing. The heat of the hob takes the chill off the air and she feels considerably better for something warm to eat.

He sits down with his own sandwich and a mug of Very English Tea. She smothers a giggle too late.

“What?” he asks, tone suspicious.

“Nothing.”

“Camille.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” She watches him sip at the tea. His expression is as blissful as she expects. “Apart from the fact you are extremely predictable.”

He lowers the mug. There’s a touch of mischief in his e yes. “You didn’t expect the other night.”

She wasn’t expecting that reference to it, either. It makes her wonder how man y bedrooms this tiny tin space has. Suspicion crawls across her skin and she shivers.

“Still cold?” He’d sound concerned if there wasn’t for that knowing half smile. She’s unleashed a monster.

“I’m fine. And no, I didn’t.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and chews it as she gazes at him. Whether it’s what happened or just the fact he’s on familiar ground, she’s not sure but she likes the confidence he exudes right now. “So, what else do you have planned for me?”

 _Merde_ , but she needs to watch what she says. “For tomorrow,” she clarifies as her cheeks heat. His lips quirk, but there’s still enough gentleman in him that he doesn’t comment on her mistake.

“I thought we could take a picnic to the beach.”

“If it stops raining.”

“Quite.”

She decides not to ask what they’ll do if it is. Not when she’s still not sure about the bedroom issue. It’s not that she doesn’t want… that, but there’s so much they’ve not talked about. He doesn’t regret it. She’s sure of that. It’s just everything else she’s not sure of. She wants to know – needs to know, damn it – but is afraid of pushing too hard.

Richard sighs. “What now?”

Camille wonders how she ever thought him incapable of reading people. Or maybe it’s just her, just now that… she’d not been exactly subtle. She tries not to tense, but her hands clasp at her mug and cling on for dear life.

“It’s…” Lying to him wasn’t easy before. Now it’s just impossible. “I’m a little nervous.”

That surprises him. “Of me?”

She snorts. “Don’t be stupid. No. Not you. This.”

“The park came highly recommended,” he says, her meaning doing a complete fly-by. “And it’s not raining that much.”

“For an intelligent man, you can be remarkably clueless at times.” Camille sits back and glares at him for making this harder. “Look, a couple of days ago you were all set to move back here permanently and I didn’t think there was even a chance for… something between us. Then the other night happened and now we’re here.”

Looking to him for reassurance strikes her as desperate and a little pointless. He’s not good at that kind of thing. His mouth fishes and she sighs.

“I don’t expect you to have all the answers,” she says, giving him that out. “But it would be nice to know what’s going on.”

Richard frowns at his tea. “I’d tell you if I knew.”

“But I… matter, right?”

“Of course you do! I don’t… not even drunk! _Camille._ ”

There’s tenderness to the admonishment in her name. It brings a reluctant smile to her face. Shaking her head, she stirs her tea to death rather than meet his eyes. She doesn’t trust her emotions right now.

“I know,” she tells him. How can she not? A shiver works her spine. She wets her lips and yanks her mind to the present. “Really, I do. It just feels… a little lost.”

For a moment he sits there, eyes on the table. But she knows him enough, knows that he’s not seeing it. “My mother died when I was young.” It’s almost an announcement, as if he were commenting on the weather. But when he looks up, the pain in his eyes hits her in chest. “It was just me and Dad and he… he didn’t handle her death well. He couldn’t cope with a child’s grief on top of his. If I fell over, I just got back up while the other kids got hugs and ice cream. I don’t blame him – he did the best he could and I didn’t want for things, just…”

“Love,” she supplies and he nods.

“I know that doesn’t make me an easy man to like. Or care for, I would imagine.”

Camille senses where he’s going and sits forward, determined to stop him. “My mother says that nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

His smile is reluctant. “Am I worthwhile, then?”

She gives him a mock glare. “ _I_ wasn’t that drunk either.”

“I didn’t imagine that you were.”

It hangs between them, almost there but not quite. Camille lets it go, because she isn’t going to get all the answers now. Hell, she doesn’t even know what half the questions are. She drains her tea as Richard gets to his feet.

His offered hand takes her by surprise. She looks up and all it takes is meeting his eyes. She puts her hand in his and he pulls her upwards. In. There’s nothing driving it this time except honest-to-God want and it feels oddly comfortable.

“So,” she murmurs against his lips, “just how many bedrooms does this tin can have?”

“Enough,” he replies and she laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

 

* * * 

  
Morning dawns clear and bright, though it’s still damn cold. Camille watches seagulls from her seat at the table. The mug of coffee – yes, he’ll kill her but she _needs_ caffeine – heats her fingers, while contentment warms her body. It feels very close to something she’s not prepared to examine yet. There’s no rush and today she’s not worrying about tomorrow. Today is for today and she’s going to let loose and have some fun. She might even get Richard to join in with it.

He’s not a much of a morning person. Something clatters and she hears half a curse before he cuts it off. She drowns her giggle with a swallow of coffee. It’s kind of endearing, really. Like she needs any further encouragement to think of him in those terms.

But today she’s not worrying about how deep she is already. She can’t fight the tide, can only let the flow take her where it will. And hope it doesn’t dash her against the rocks.

“Why can I smell coffee?” Richard sounds like he’s accusing her of murder. He eyes her mug like it’s a dead body.

She points to the stove. “There’s tea in the pot.”

“Oh.” He wanders over and she watches curiously. She can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’s seen him in something other than the suit, including nothing at all. The trousers are pressed but still more casual than she’s used to. The shirt…

“That is singularly the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she tells him. “And I’m sat on a sofa that looks like cat puke.”

His glare is unimpressed. “Why thank you.”

“Well it is.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to accompany me to the beach?”

“No, it means that shirt is ugly.” She gets up and stretches lazily. He watches her every move, half annoyed, half something very different. “What are we taking to eat? You promised me picnic, but I know there’s nothing in.”

“We can get something on the way.” He brightens. “I can show you a proper British supermarket.”

Camille laughs and crosses to him. “You really show a girl a good time,” she says, then eases her teasing with a quick kiss. “How badly am I going to freeze out there?”

He gives her a guileless, wide-eyed look. “Not at all.”

“You’re a dreadful liar, you know that right?”

“It’s really not that bad.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. It _rained,_ Richard.”

“It’s Britain. It does that.”

She gives up. “Fine. I suppose since you’ve put up with the heat of Saint-Marie, the least I can do is brave a little cold.”

“Sound fair to me,” he replies with a smile.

But it is cold, even in a wool sweater and a thick coat. She’s trying not to complain and wishing she’d not teased him as badly at the beginning. It’s easy to understand how much of a change the temperature has been for him now, though not how he can go around in that damn suit. She’s amazed he’s not succumbed to heatstroke, though perhaps it just doesn’t dare affect him.

While she shivers in three layers, he strolls down the road by the sand as if they are back in Saint-Marie. The bitter wind that whips at her hair and tosses sand in her eyes doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

“What a lovely day,” he sighs. “Where do you want to stop?”

She wishes she’d stopped in the caravan. Then her gaze drifts past to the bulky structure stretching out to sea. “What’s that?”

“The pier? Oh, that’s a bit garish.”

Garish is Richard Poole talk for fun. Camille brightens. His expression turns pained. She winds her arm around his and leans in. “We don’t have anything like that on Saint-Marie,” she says, not above using what leverage she has in order to get out of the wind. “It looks like fun.”

He groans. “It’s a tourist trap, all expensive tat and stupidity.”

“So? You did promise to show me the sights.”

“I suppose I did.” He glances down. “You’re determined about this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Joy.” But he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come along then.”

They walk in companionable silence and Camille finds herself content to leave it at that. He’d surprised her with last night’s story. It’s not easy for him to open up, she knows that all too well, so each time he does it feels like receiving a precious gift. He trusts her, and that means so much more than anything else.

Well, almost anything else. _That_ was a surprise. If she’d thought about it - and she’d not because it seemed so utterly foreign - then she might have put him in the lie-back-and-think-of-England camp. And she’d have been wrong.

Still waters run deep.

Camille bites back a grin and wonders what the boys think. Fidel is – or was – clueless, but Dwayne proved harder to keep the truth from. Though she might as well have told him aliens had landed, given his reaction. They’ll watch until they’re sure she won’t get hurt, as her mother will. She’s more confidence in him, as long as he just _thinks_ before he speaks.

The pier is just as loud as Richard morosely predicted, if not more so. She bothers him until he relents and pays for her to throw balls at coconuts. She wins a bear in a leather cap and goggles and makes him laugh by naming it “Dwayne”. Then he buys an ice cream and makes her wonder how he can eat it when the wind is at least as cold as the confection.

And makes her smile when he lets her steal the chocolate flake.

For all his moaning, they are having fun. He’s loosened up enough to mock her attempts to shoot a rifle with dodgy sights. She doesn’t win anything on that game. They move on and he spots something that sparks more than a passing interest.

“Oh, rock!” he enthuses. “Come on, Camille – you _have_ to try this.”

She laughs and lets him drag her over. The stall is set out with lengths of brightly-coloured tubes. Richard tells her how it’s made, though she loses the thread somewhere after melted sugar, and she wanders to the back of the shop.

Her eyes fall on items kept from general view for very obvious reasons. She glances at Richard and a wicked thought tempts her. Taking one of each, she goes back to him with a wide grin.

“Is it me that needs to try?” she says and holds up one sweet. It’s very pink, tipped with red. “Or did you just want sugar tits?”

He goes redder than the oversized nipples and splutters. Camille laughs outright and puts the rock boobs back. She’s got enough revenge for being dragged out in the cold for now. But she catches the eye of the seller and the other rock mould gets slipped into the bag. She’ll torment him with that later.

“What about this picnic?” she says, hugging his arm again. “I’m starving.”

He looks around. “D’you know what?”

“What?”

“It’s bloody cold. How do you fancy fish and chips?”


End file.
